Of Being Gobsmacked
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Is there anything in this wide world that can truly leave Sherlock Holmes in speechless shock? Anything at all? ...It seems there is, but John's not sure he likes knowing that he's the one who's caused this phenomenon. .:. semi-Johnlock, mainly John/Mary


**A/N: A tiny, not-very-well-elaborated-on idea of mine (in drabble form) of a sort of headcanon I have forming about what things might be like post-Reichenbach/return. **

**Implied Johnlock, but mainly John/Mary. John's POV. **

* * *

><p><em>Then:<em>

There are moments when I wonder – intensely, thoroughly wonder – if it's possible to surprise Sherlock Holmes.

I've seen moments come close to it: when I complimented Sherlock on his deductions in the cab on the way to our first crime scene (this I noticed in retrospect, however); when I walked out, donned in explosives, at the pool; at the small Christmas party when Sherlock realized Molly is and always has been interested in him, and the 'boyfriend gift' was for him; when he realized he was frightened of the Hound.

These are moments, albeit miniscule ones, where Sherlock is caught off guard, and the moments warrant the rare satisfaction of having surprised the cleverest man on Earth.

But the problem is, even if he is slightly taken aback by such things, he always fully recovers and rationalizes it or puzzles it out, and it never takes very long for him to do so. I have yet to see a moment where my flatmate is perfectly, undeniably gobsmacked. There has yet to be something that happens that shocks Sherlock so well that he is left without thought, without words, without breath. The Hound came close, I believe, but it was a bit of the drug in the fog's doing to account for that. And even then, he was a bit on a ramble; he wasn't rendered speechless.

So, then: true surprise in Sherlock Homes? It's a marvel I've yet to see. That anyone, I'm sure, has yet to see.

And I'm aching to see it.

XXX

_Now:_

When Sherlock first returned to me after faking his death, I didn't know what to do with myself. I couldn't tell whether I should be relieved he was alive, thankful he pulled one last miracle for me after all, or utterly infuriated with him for making me think for so long that he was dead.

I was mostly the latter, though: angry. Bitter. Betrayed. I didn't speak to him for weeks, but I let him back into my life otherwise. After we sorted everything out – how he "died" (or, rather, how he managed _not _to), where he went, what he did, whether or not he cared about the people he left behind (he did; he explained to me all about Moriarty's plans and how Sherlock, above all, wanted to protect _me_), and how he wants to go about getting back into the world – I talked to him again. Forgave him (but can't forget). Went back on cases with him.

The second I walked into the flat after getting a call from a weeping Mrs. Hudson, saw that Sherlock was standing beside her, I honestly didn't cry. I _didn't_, not a tear. But I might as well have, because I started to make these ugly sobbing sounds, breath catching in my throat, hiccups emerging from the sporadic bouts of oxygen intake and carbon dioxide release, and finally, I embraced him.

And then I punched him in the face, not bothering to miss his nose this time. He bled, Mrs. Hudson yelped, but in the end, we were sitting down for tea and were very silent while Sherlock explained himself to the fullest. Being gone three years is a lot to catch up with, after all.

Things are more or less back to normal, now. Or, I should say, normal for us. Sherlock is a little more humbled around me these days, and I think it's because he's still trying to make up for dying on me like that. He doesn't belittle me as much, and I can't say that I mind. It's nice to be a tad more respected.

I had a life before he returned, and I've carried on with that life without his knowing. (At least, I haven't _said _anything about it, but I'm sure he has an inkling anyway. He's _Sherlock_.)

I show up one morning at the flat and start packing. Sherlock hears me shuffling around and blocks the doorway with his body, leaning against the frame. "Where are you off to? We have a new case to investigate."

"I'm leaving with Mary for the weekend to visit her folks," I say quietly.

"Mary? So that's the name of the woman you've been going to see every now and then," he states, nodding his head. "I've been wondering who it was. I would have spied on you, but I thought I'd be more polite this time around, give you space. Which reminds me: you are serious about this one if you're going to see her family. Did you propose?"

"I will shortly," I say. I'm sure he already knew that – the bulge of a ring box in my pocket is a bit obvious – but he most likely wanted to hear me say it. I haven't been telling him all that much, and I'm beginning to wonder if it bothers him. It should; he really hurt me by leaving. I told him that I forgave him, but I'm still not entirely sure if that's true. Not speaking much to him about my personal life since his absence is my way of being passive aggressive; something I swore I would never be, but, well. Everyone does it now and then, I think, no matter how generous of a soul they are. Everyone has their defensive and offensive moments, and sometimes, passive aggressive behavior is needed for those moments.

"Well, it won't last, at any rate," Sherlock says suddenly, breaking me from my thoughts. He dismisses it and turns to leave the room. He's still wearing his robe, t-shirt, and pajama bottoms from this morning, and it's three in the afternoon.

"What the hell do you mean by that?" I snap, following him out, my suitcase in my hand.

"Your girlfriends never last," he remarks coldly. "The cases become too important to you, or too stressful for them, and in the end, you come back to me. It's how it's always worked since we've become colleagues."

"This one breaks pattern," I retort. "Mary is special to me, Sherlock. I love her. She's been here for me. She's supported me and helped lift me from the bloody depression you sent me into when you faked suicide. So you're wrong, Sherlock. Hear that? You're _wrong. _I'm marrying her, whether you approve of it or not."

He makes me so angry lately. It's resentment, it's pain, it's the fact that, slightly humbled attitude aside, he's the same old Sherlock and thinks that I should be over what he did because it was necessary. And I am mostly over it; I'm past the sorrow, that's for sure, but the pain is still there, and it's evolved into rage. Most of the time we get on as usual, and we even laugh; but when it comes to this, to _Mary… _I can't brush it off.

Sherlock frowns. "Something is wrong with you," he says, suddenly alert. He stands from his chair and looks me up and down. "You're leaving early. You've just packed, but you clearly intend on staying at her place before visiting, hence the extra clothes for merely one weekend and the fact that you've brought the case out here. And you're uncharacteristically unkind right now. So something is off. What is it?"

And if that's a rhetorical question, I treat it like one anyway. I ignore it and pick up my suitcase.

"John? Aren't you at least going to accompany me to the crime scene before you go?" Sherlock says. "Work comes first."

"Not this time," I tell him firmly, not looking him in the eye. I turn and head out the door, grabbing my jacket on the way. I'll put it on in the cab.

"…John?" Sherlock calls down the stairs as I'm heading out. "John!" He makes a huffing noise. I just catch, "Fine, I didn't need you for this case anyhow –" as I shut the door.

I get into the cab and direct the driver to Mary's.

I fiddle with the velvet jewelry box in my pocket and have second thoughts, but none I will act on.

XXX

Mary's parents love me. They give me their blessing to propose to her. I take her out to a nice restaurant, French, and slip the ring under her napkin. She lifts it, spies the tiny black box, and gapes. Then she smiles, opens it, and gives me a breathless 'yes.'

I have her meet Sherlock a week later. She seems charmed by him, a little offended by his deductions, but also slightly amazed. She says she can see why I like him. She says that, weren't he so blunt, he would be a great friend of hers as well.

When we get married, Sherlock doesn't attend. He sees me before the wedding, but it's not until after the honeymoon when I come to pack up my things and move out of the flat that Sherlock says something about it.

"…This is really happening, then," he murmurs as I'm putting some of my books into a box. I look up, and in the kitchen, I hear Mary pause in her assistance with some of my kitchenware to listen in. I don't mind that she does; she's my wife. I won't hide anything from her. But Sherlock goes on, "Considering your track record with women for as long as I've been in your acquaintance, I thought it wouldn't get this far. But it is. You're married," and his eyes glance down at the new band on my left ring finger, "And you're moving out."

"Yes, Sherlock, that is generally what people do when they get married," I inform him. "They move in with their spouses and resign to see their old flatmates for drinks on occasion."

"What about work?" Sherlock says pointedly, a frown on his brows. "You can't abandon our work, John."

"Yes, I can, in fact." I tell him without delay as I stand fully and wipe sweat from my brow. I grab the take and seal the box. "My job is at the hospital. Surgeon. I won't accompany you on any more cases. But if one of your victims wind up in the morgue for study, I might join you and Molly there for old times' sake. But other than that, Sherlock? No more running around and solving cases with you anymore. Not for me. Mary and I want to have children, and soon. I can't be thinking about children and dead bodies at the same time."

When I look at him again after my little speech, I'm finished with another box, and Mary is in the kitchen doorway, a hand on her mouth. I follow her gaze, and there's Sherlock, standing near the window and staring at me. He hardly blinks.

It is the most flabbergasted expression I have ever seen on his face. And there it is, I realize: there is that shock, that bewildered expression, of Sherlock being truly thrown from his rigging and lost at sea. It's something I thought, up until this point, I would never see in full; merely in glimpses during the small moments of the past.

But no, there it is: he's making it, and I would take a picture or laugh if the circumstances for his making this expression weren't so painful.

I immediately tense and drop what I'm doing. I realize all too quickly why my marriage and leaving would shake him like this: he's become dependent on me. For friendship, for everyday chores, for guidance with the trivial things, and for acceptance. And now I am yanking all of that from underneath him, like tearing the rug away from under a crippled man, or like shattering the ice beneath an ice skater's blades.

Sherlock blinks more purposely and slowly turns his body to look out the window. It's subtle – I doubt mary would even notice – but his hand shakes as he brings it up to brace against the windowpane. I swallow hard. I never meant to harm him, not like this. Part of me, at some point, wanted a bit of revenge for his hurting me with his death, but I succeeded in any sort of revenge long ago by keeping him out of my affairs as much as I could, and by not speaking to him for a long while.

This is too much.

"Sherlock, I didn't… I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to… to…" and I bite my bottom lip before licking it, noticing how dry both lips are. I take a step toward him, but Mary is suddenly by my side, placing her and on my forehead and shaking her head.

"Maybe it's best we let him take this in on his own," she says softly. Her eyes are tender and understanding as she looks back at him, and then me. "He really only has one friend in the world, doesn't he? And it can't be easy for him to lose you."

"But I'll still be in London, around here and there. He can still see me if he likes," I tell her in a replying whisper.

She make a half-nod, "Yes, but it won't be the same; you know that. Different routines and all. It will affect you, too, I expect."

"I know, Mary," I sigh. I pat her hand on my forearm. "I know."

"He does, too," she says as she starts to move away and continue packing with me. "And that's the problem."

I hear Sherlock exhale loudly from the corner, and I know he's been listening the entire time.

I try not to let it bother me, that I've finally seen that face on him, and yet it's under the most unexpected circumstance.

I sigh again when I leave, all of my possessions in boxes or suitcases being loaded into Mary's car.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," I tell him half-heartedly from the doorway. Mary is downstairs, already in the car on the curb. I have the last of my things tucked under one arm.

Sherlock hasn't moved from staring out the window.

"Goodbye," he says right as I turn, thinking he wasn't going to answer. When I glance back, he's gazing at me in a way that I can only describe as coldly. His expression is stony and his eyes are dull. He looks utterly defeated, but seemingly nonchalant. I know him too well to think he couldn't care less about this; I know for a fact that he cares a bit too much, and that's the problem, like Mary essentially said.

"I'll see you again soon, yeah?" I say, trying to smile. "Take care of yourself."

"Yes," Sherlock murmurs as he returns to gazing out the window. "Take care."

And as I leave, driving away with Mary, I feel like I've made the biggest mistake, but can't seem to bring myself to accept that feeling. So, in denial, I lean over the passenger seat and kiss Mary on the cheek.


End file.
